The Devil You Know
by Fortitudine
Summary: Heyes and the Kid attempt a desperate rescue when a spoiled young woman rides into the path of a Comanche war party.


**The Devil You Know**

_The prince of darkness is a gentleman_. (Shakespeare, _King Lear_)

The bay mare was a thoroughbred, with elegant lines and a proud little head. Miss Westbrook wanted her, and whatever Miss Westbrook wanted, she got. That was the way the things generally worked out, for Colonel Westbrook's daughter.

She was back with the Regiment, after seven years of boarding school and a successful debutante season, to spend the spring queening it over what passed for society at Fort Buford. Every subaltern, indeed, every bachelor for a hundred miles, paid her homage. Even the enlisted men grew quiet when she swept past.

"_For Beauty's self she is_," quoted Trooper Brown, long suspected of being an educated man. And the rank and file, instead of clouting him, silently agreed.

She got the mare, of course; and began daily excursions with one swain or another, "to explore," she said, since the Regiment transferred while she was in the East and the country was new to her. And in time, the Fort took note that her preferred companion was Mark Redfern.

Had Colonel Westbrook been a bit less preoccupied, he would have nipped this association in the bud. Redfern was not only a civilian; his sole means of support appeared to be the poker games where he spent his evenings deftly separating soldiers from their pay. Not a suitable escort; not suitable at all. But with the coming of spring, small groups of Comanches had begun drifting away from the barren reservation at Fort Sill and heading back to their traditional hunting grounds in the Panhandle country, and the Colonel had his hands full.

This left Miss Westbrook to her own devices, and Miss Westbrook was bored. The adjutant and the other officers politely refused to take her beyond sight of the parade ground, so she tossed her head at their warnings and smiled winningly upon Mark Redfern. Redfern smiled back and went riding with her, up into the hills where even the greenest shavetail would not have gone.

When Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry rode into Fort Buford, tired and road-sore after the long trip from New Mexico, they hoped only for a little piece and quiet and some time to rest up their horses. What they got was a peremptory hail from a boy in shoulder straps and a duty officer's sash.

"Hold up there!" He stepped into the street in front of Heyes' horse, one gauntleted hand raised. The partners eyed him warily.

"Second Lieutenant MacAvoy," he identified himself. "Gentlemen, the Regiment would appreciate your assistance. One of the ladies is missing and I need as many good men as I can find to ride out and look for her."

"Lieutenant—" Heyes began.

"A band of Comanches jumped the reservation and burned a ranch house yesterday, murdered the people there." He looked up at them and the official mask dropped for a moment and he looked very young, and very worried. "It's Dolly Westbrook—Colonel Westbrook's daughter. She went riding early this morning and hasn't been seen since. We could use your help."

"Lieutenant, our supplies are about gone and our horses are done in," Heyes pointed out. "If we push 'em any further they'll drop on us."

"I can provide you with fresh mounts, Mister. Damnation!" the lieutenant swore self-consciously. "I'll loan you two of my own horses and give you rations and as many cartridges as you require. Look-we've got three troops absent on patrol, I'm the officer of the day and can't leave the post, and the commanding officer's daughter is out there somewhere with only a gambler named Redfern to protect her."

"That wouldn't be _Mark_ Redfern, would it?" asked Heyes.

"You know him?"

"We've met." Heyes' expression was not happy.

"He's supposed to be good with a gun," the lieutenant said, hopefully.

"He's a loudmouth who thinks he's good with a gun," the Kid told him. "There's a six foot hole in the ground between the two."

The three men looked at each other.

"Ah, hell," sighed Heyes. "Give us the horses."

"And the cartridges," said the Kid.

Second Lieutenant MacAvoy was still wet behind the ears, Heyes reflected, but he certainly knew good horseflesh. The mounts he handed over to them were Morgans, grain-fed and sturdy.

"These ain't cavalry horses," the Kid observed.

"They were a gift from my grandfather. He, ah, he thought I might be able to train them as polo ponies."

"Your Grandpa ever been West, lieutenant?" Heyes asked. The Kid's face was carefully expressionless.

"He lives in Poughkeepsie."

Heyes leaned forward and patted his horse's neck. "Don't matter—they're prime. We'll try and bring 'em back in one piece."

"If we make it back in one piece," the Kid muttered.

"Yessir. I mean, of course. Good luck to you."

The search parties fanned out in all directions, and Heyes and the Kid headed north.

"Ever run into Comanches on the warpath, Kid?"

"Nope. Saw Quanah Parker, once, after he surrendered. And I was on a trail drive with a fella who was at the fight at Adobe Wells. He sure had some stories to tell."

"I hope you paid attention." Heyes shifted his tired body in the saddle, grateful for the Morgan's easy gait. "I just wish that girl had anybody besides Redfern with her. Remember him from Virginia City? Four-flusher in a fancy vest?"

"All show and no stay," the Kid said, succinctly.

It was an hour past noon when they caught up with the missing pair, ambling back down the post road. Miss Westbrook rode sidesaddle, and her habit was the latest fashion and suited her figure admirably. Mark Redfern looked uneasy, and kept glancing back over his shoulder.

"'Lo, Redfern," Heyes greeted him. "They're a tad worried about you at the Fort and we've come out to escort you and the lady home."

"So kind! But I'm sure that's not necessary," Miss Westbrook said archly, letting her doe-brown eyes move from one man to the other and then glancing downward so her lashes brushed her cheek. "Mr Redfern and I haven't seen anything."

"You never do, ma'am, until it's too late to run." Heyes appreciated the eyelashes but reflected that Miss Westbrook's timing could have been better. "Right about now, the best place for you to be is back inside the Fort."

"I'm an Army girl," she laughed, and tapped her saddle holster where a Colt .32 rested. "I grew up with my father's Regiment. You can't frighten me! Besides—_you_ don't look very scared."

"No ma'am. I always try to hide my feelings."

"Heyes." The Kid was looking off to the northeast. Just below the slope of the foothills were silhouetted two figures on horseback. As they watched, more sprang into sight and moved towards the first pair. "Comanches."

"Are you sure they aren't Pimas?" Miss Westbrook asked with a knowing air. "The Pimas scout for us, and—"

"Them's Comanches," said the Kid. "And we're in for a scrap. We ain't got time to run for it, we'll have to stand 'em off."

He pointed his chin towards a semicircle of rocks about a half a mile away. "Over there—that's our best chance, if we can beat them to it."

"Don't be a fool!" Redfern cried. "We have to get out of here!"

"You may not like the idea," the Kid told him, "But unless you got a better one, we're fightin'." He pulled his Winchester from the scabbard and threw the lever down and back, cocking it.

Redfern yanked his horse's head around. "I'll go for help!" he shouted and rocketed past them, heading towards the Fort. Miss Westbrook gave a little scream.

"Damn him," the Kid remarked calmly. "We'd best get movin'."

Heyes brought his hand down on the bay mare's rump and lifted the Morgan into a flat gallop. With the Kid flanking them, the three of them reached the rocks without interference from the watching war party. Heyes lifted Miss Westbrook from the saddle and dropped her, none too gently, onto the ground. His partner was already dismounted and scanning the landscape.

"Whatcha think, Kid?"

"I count ten, mebbe twelve. I'm guessin' young bucks on their first raid, no real warriors among 'em. If that was Quanah or ol' White Eagle out there, we'd've never made it."

"There's about six more over yonder."

They took quick stock of their situation. The rocks backed up to an escarpment, steep and unclimbable, beyond which broken ground fell away westward in a series of deep arroyos. As a defensive position, it was as good as they could hope for. A range of low hills lay to the east and north, and southward the road to Fort Buford stretched, white and empty.

A shot came from that direction, the sound sullen and flat in the hot afternoon. Too heavy for the .38 Redfern carried.

_They got 'im_? Heyes looked at the Kid questioningly.

His partner nodded.

"Let's get these horses down."

They hobbled the horses and forced them over onto their sides in the grass. The Morgans went quietly, but the mare fought them until the Kid clubbed her behind the ear and she sank to the ground, stunned.

"It's Mr. Redfern!" Dolly Westbrook cried suddenly. "He's coming back!"

She pointed at the approaching rider. The Kid shook his head.

"That's a Comanche, Miss Westbrook, on his horse and wearing his hat and coat."

When the full meaning of that struck her, she began to sob, and Heyes squatted down beside her and laid his hand on her arm.

"Listen, ma'am," he said urgently. "It looks worse'n it is. We really ain't so bad off-this place has plenty of cover, and me and my partner are goin' to split up and lay down what your Pa would call enfiladin' fire. So you just stay here with the horses, and if one of them Comanches manages to get past us—which he won't, but I'm tellin' you this, just in case—as soon as he comes over those rocks, well, you shoot him."

The Kid came up with the .32 from her saddle holster and pressed her cold fingers around the butt.

"Three times," he told her. She looked at him, her eyes shocked and fearful, and he explained.

"You see an Injun, you just point that little gun of yours right at 'em, like you was pointin' your finger. Pull the trigger three times…one-two-three. That way you'll be sure at least one of your shots is goin' to hit 'em."

"And when we hear you shootin', we'll hightail it on back and be right there with you," Heyes assured her. "Understand?"

She began to rock back and forth on her knees, whimpering.

"Understand?" Heyes shook her, roughly, and her head snapped up. She nodded and swallowed.

"I understand."

"Good. Now you sit tight. We'll get out of this all right, Miss Westbrook." He made his voice loud and confident. "We'll be back at the Fort before sundown. You'll be waltzin' at the officers' dance come Saturday night, and you make sure you save me one. I'm real partial to waltzes."

He grinned at her but got no answering smile from the white-faced young woman.

_Too bad_, he thought bitterly, _she couldn't have gotten scared about four hours ago._

But his expression stayed blandly pleasant. "The worst of a bad thing is having time to think about it, and we've been spared that. Now you just sit tight," he repeated, and began crawling forward. The Kid flattened himself in the dirt and bellied away, angling off to one side looking for a good spot to shoot from.

The Comanches started probing the rocks with a hesitant spatter of gunfire. Indians, Heyes reflected, rarely got their hands on decent ammunition, and besides, accurate shooting from two hundred yards while on a moving horse is not as easy as the dime novels claim. A few stray rounds screamed overhead but most ploughed harmlessly into the ground far short of their intended targets, and the firing died away. The last shot kicked up a little fountain of dirt and ricocheted, humming, off one of the boulders sheltering Miss Westbrook. It missed hitting anything important by several feet.

Someone who should have known better once wrote that being shot at is like being in love; something that ought to happen to everyone, at least once. This sentiment is not shared by those who've had the experience. Miss Westbrook was learning that it is not nice to be shot at, not at all, and particularly not when outnumbered six to one by a Comanche war party. She shrieked and covered her face with her hands.

One by one the Comanches peeled off and began circling, sliding down behind their ponies and yelling shrilly. It was half bluff and half taunt, intended to raise the hair on the back of a man's neck and make him jumpy enough to take foolish chances. _I'd ruther face a posse any day,_ was Heyes' grim thought. _At least they don't ride around screamin' like catamounts. _

"Watch out for a rush!" He heard the Kid shout. "They ain't goin' to fool around like this much longer."

A dozen of them whirled and rode directly towards the rocks and the air was suddenly filled with their yipping cries and the crackle of gunfire. The Kid rose to his knees and pulled down on the first rider, blasting him off his pony's back. Heyes concentrated on pumping as many shots as he could into the onrushing melee of horses and men.

Two slumped over and dropped out of the fight, a testament more to the rate of fire produced by a Model 1876 carbine than to his marksmanship. He dragged the back of his hand across his dripping forehead and sent up a fervent prayer of thanks to Mr. Oliver Winchester.

The attack ended as suddenly as it had begun. The Comanches pulled up and dashed back out of range, except for one excited boy who kept coming, firing wildly as he rode. The Kid's bullet took him in the chest and should have stopped him, but he managed to stay astride, his charge carrying him past the Kid and back towards Miss Westbrook and the horses.

The Kid's rifle boomed again and the Comanche pitched over into the circle of rocks, his spine cut in half. The pony went down screaming, and they heard the vicious snap of Miss Westbrook's .32.

"Kid!"

"Yeah!"

"Get back there and check on her!"

He thumbed fresh cartridges into the magazine as he watched the war party. One of them, braver or more foolish than the rest, charged again, throwing himself to the side and shooting across his pony's neck. Heyes sighed and sent a round through the animal's ribs, and when it crashed to the dirt in a thrashing tangle of legs and the Comanche leaped free, snapped off three quick shots before he could go to ground. One of them shattered the attacker's hip, spinning him around and dropping him into the cover of the tall grass.

After a moment, Heyes spotted a faint ripple where the Comanche was cautiously dragging himself to safety. He fired dead center into the movement, and it was still.

The survivors sat and considered the odds. Three of their number were dead or dying, and two were wounded. Their intended victims, on the other hand, were in pretty good shape—well-hidden, well-armed, and ready. There is no fighter more tenacious than a Comanche, when cornered, or in a running battle out in the open. This was a different matter. The war party turned and rode off to find easier pickings. The scrap had lasted less than fifteen minutes.

"Looks like they're leavin', Kid!" Heyes sent half a dozen shots after them by way of encouragement, and moved carefully backwards, staying flat to the ground and keeping his eye on the departing Comanches.

"How we doin'?" He called. _By the time this is over I won't have any skin left on my belly,_ he thought as a stone scraped across his ribs. He stopped to put the crippled Indian pony out of its agony before hoisting himself up over the last row of rocks and rolling onto his knees to look for Miss Westbrook.

A few feet beyond the Comanche's body, the girl sprawled face upward, staring at the sky. Where her right eye had been was a small hole, blackened with powder around the edges, and the grass beneath her oddly-flattened head was red and sticky. The saddle gun lay by her hand. The Kid sat on the ground beside her, his head down, cursing quietly. Heyes turned and was sick into the trampled grass.

"You poor little girl," he whispered, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "You poor, damn, _stupid_ little girl."

She would have grown up with the stories, he thought—grim tales of the old Indian-fighting army, of desperate skirmishes and horrific tortures, and recruits ordered to save a bullet for themselves rather than fall into hostile hands. That Comanche hurtling towards her, already dead but propelled by the heavy slug from the Kid's Winchester, was all it took to destroy what was left of her nerve.

They spent a bad half hour roping a blanket around her head and another around her skirt, tying her up into some semblance of decency so that she could be slung over her saddle for the trip back to Fort Buford.

"I don't know if I can finish this." Heyes' face was ashen.

"Somebody's got to," his partner said bleakly.

Even from a distance, there would be no mistaking what they were bringing with them. The Kid caught up the mare's reins and they took Dolly Westbrook home to the Regiment.


End file.
